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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22515694">Verdancy (and The Beginning of New and Old Things)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/pseuds/AdorabloodthirstyKitty'>AdorabloodthirstyKitty</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Getting Back Together, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Will I ever be over the green things verse? No. But life goes on</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 10:20:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,508</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22515694</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/pseuds/AdorabloodthirstyKitty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley was in a state of panic. Crowley was in a near-constant state of panic.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Verdancy (and The Beginning of New and Old Things)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/gifts">summerofspock</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/19848766">Green Things Are Flowers Too</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock">summerofspock</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I honestly can't begin to describe how much I've loved every single fic from summerofspock that I've read. I've posted So Many comments on their fics, pointing out the things I liked from the updates (everything) and just, enjoying the worlds they've made. green things was one of the first stories from them I really got into, and it will always hold a very special place in my heart</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In all the millenia the Serpent of Eden lived on Earth, he'd never really celebrated holidays. Never had many days marked in the calendar, notes on the sleek empty fridge of his Mayflair flat. Not until only a handful of years before the end of days, when Crowley and his hereditary enemy turned longtime friend and love of his immortal life, Aziraphale, played house to the child they believed to be the Antichrist. They were to pretend to be a happily married couple, nanny and gardener to the Dowling's, and teach the young antichrist good and evil, leaving him something in between, something human, and hopefully something that wouldn't destroy the world they'd grown to love in eternal hellfire.</p><p>What Crowley had not expected (though he did allow himself an occasional daydream or two), was for Aziraphale, love of his immortal life for the past 6,000 years, to love him back in the not-quite-Biblical sense. Had Crowley been told from God Herself that Aziraphale would fall madly in love with him, Crowley probably would have had some choice words to say on the matter, or a certain salute including a certain finger from each hand. As it were, Crowley was left completely in the dark, their usual roundabout way of expressing their feelings causing quite a bit of hurt on both sides, and a misunderstanding that nearly broke what was left of the shriveled husk that Crowley imagined his heart resembled.</p><p>The experience had not been all bad. There were a few moments and quite a few memories that Crowley had that he would have looked back on fondly, if the whole thing didn't hurt so much, a throbbing pain that flared up if he wasn't careful. And unfortunately, every year like clockwork, Crowley was reminded of his time with Aziraphale very acutely when February rolled around. Not just because of the influx of paper hearts and chubby, diapered cherubs, but because February thirteenth was now the only day that made it into Crowley's internal (and infernal) calendar. February thirteenth: the anniversary of Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis. And no matter how many times he told himself to forget the whole thing, that the day was of no actual importance, that it was just another day in his very long life, he was always painfully aware of it.</p><p>(The thirteenth was seven days away.)</p><p>It had taken a long time for Crowley to pull himself out of the depths of his despair, to pull his misery into a neat little box to shove into the back of his mind (even if the despair still tended to leak out, leaving him in states ranging from sullen and quiet to unconscious for days or weeks at a time just for some relief from his own thoughts). It took longer than he would like to admit for him to pull himself back into something that resembled normal. A new, lonelier, markedly less angelic normal. For what was a short span in his immortal life but felt like a small eternity, he stayed away from Aziraphale. He didn't call, didn't write, didn't pop into the shop and sprawl along the couch that he had secretly thought of as his. Not even when Aziraphale wrote, sending emails or leaving prim, lingering voicemails on his machine. He kept it professional, and it twisted the knife just a little more every single time.</p><p>It had been years since their time at the Dowling estate, and somewhere along the line, after years of silence that pained him as much as it relieved Crowley's anxieties, they were here. In something calmer, something less lonely. It was almost like before, with Crowley waltzing into the shop whenever Aziraphale called, draping himself along the couch or accompanying his angel to lunch-turned-dinner's, their conversations kept light, and only returning to more serious topics after one too many drinks in the shop, or enough light touches to send Crowley's heart fluttering in anticipation and anxiety alike.</p><p>It was on one such night, after an afternoon at a small cafe a couple blocks down followed by a particularly good cabernet sauvignon, that would be yet another point of importance in their ever-evolving relationship.</p><p>Aziraphale had just finished telling Crowley about getting a couple potential buyers away from the shop with a particularly smelly miracle when his posture straightened, leaning forward to top up their glasses before turning to Crowley with a serious look that made Crowley's heart rate spike in a way that would cause serious cardiac distress had he been human. Instead, he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat, meeting Aziraphale's gaze head-on and vaguely wishing he hadn't discarded his glasses to the table an hour or so prior.</p><p>Aziraphale's eyes were a stormy blue, bright and steely, leaving Crowley feeling more anxious by the minute. Aziraphale's gaze softened, and he smiled kindly as if to reassure. <em>Be not afraid</em>. Crowley took another short drink, if only to give his limbs something to do besides launch himself out of the back room as quickly as possible.</p><p>Aziraphale’s gaze lowered to the glass in his hand, twirling the stem nervously before meeting Crowley’s gaze again.</p><p>"I want you to know, before I ask, that you have every right to refuse. I only want this if it's what you want, and if it makes you uncomfortable, or you aren't ready, I completely understand."</p><p>Crowley swallowed, his throat dry as his limbs moved, pulling him upright as he leaned forward, wanting to reach a hand out to comfort his angel. He refrained, but when he spoke his voice was soft and comforting, a tone he’d ever only used with a certain little boy he’d helped raise, and a certain angel that always seemed to cut to the soft underbelly of him.</p><p>"What is it, angel?"</p><p>Aziraphale only hesitated a moment, taking a steadying breath and squaring his shoulders before meeting Crowley's gaze again.</p><p>"I wanted to ask if you'd let me take you out to dinner in a week's time. It can be as platonic or romantic as you'd like."</p><p>(The thirteenth was in a week's time. Was the date chosen purposefully? Did that day hold as much importance to Aziraphale as it did Crowley?)</p><p>Crowley hoped very, very hard that he wasn't imagining the hopeful look on Aziraphale's face. That this didn't end in fire and brimstone.</p><p>He took another sip, praying he didn't look as affected as he felt as he lowered his glass and asked, "What time?"</p><p>-</p><p>Crowley was in a state of panic. Crowley was in a near-constant state of panic, but this panic was acute and potent, leaving Crowley tearing through every outfit he'd ever miracled into existence, nearly ripping his hair out in clumps with the ferocity and frequency at which he tugged and pulled the offending locks from his face.</p><p>It was February thirteenth, approximately twenty minutes and forty-three seconds until his date with Aziraphale, and he was panicking.</p><p>He stopped pacing, biting his lip hard enough to sting as he focused. Aziraphale had said as platonic or romantic as he wanted. But what did he want?</p><p>He took a long, unnecceassary breath. And he snapped his fingers. He looked in the mirror he'd miracled up just a few minutes before.</p><p>It wasn't bad, all things considered. It was Nanny-esque, dark and buttoned up the neck, just a bit more dramatic. He drummed his hands against his legs in a nervous drumbeat, watching the black lace falling from the cinched in bit at the wrists flutter about his knuckles like anxious butterflies. It was all black, the shirt high-necked and dramatic, a cross between 1800s aristocracy and some trashy vampire novel. It was absolutely perfect.</p><p>He straightened the highwaisted pants uselessly, brushing out creases that weren't there before snapping his fingers again, a familiar silver ring curling delicately around his finger. He turned his hand, watching the ruby shine up at him. He remembered the day Aziraphale had given it to him vividly, remembered the way his breath had stopped when he opened the box, how his heart had felt as though it were being squeezed too tight and fit to burst. He never wanted to take it off.</p><p>He eyed his reflection in the mirror one last time before snapping his glasses onto his face and hurrying out the door. He had a date to get to.</p><p>And when he eventually got to the venue, a dim, posh place filled to the brim with secluded corners fit for lovers, he didn't bother hiding a smile as Aziraphale pulled out his chair. He leaned across the table, smiled as Aziraphale seemed to shine even in the low light of the restaurant, and he felt his heart flip when he took the hand Aziraphale left on the table, an invitation he accepted. And when Aziraphale saw the ring glittering on his finger, Crowley could all but feel the love in the soft smile Aziraphale gifted him.</p><p>Maybe he could get used to this anniversary thing.</p>
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